Dealer in Curses
by Alseides
Summary: A Trueblood dealer in curses runs into trouble with curses, half-dragons, and the human world in this Bordertown tale.


The Bordertown world was created by, and is copyrighted by, Terri Windling. The world, its landmarks and characters are used with her permission only. All rights to Borderland material are reserved by Ms. Windling and the authors of the Borderland books: Borderland, Bordertown, Life on the Border, Elsewhere, Nevernever, and Finder.  
  
Borderlands - Dealer in Curses  
  
By Alseides  
  
"Hey, Spock-ears! I got the latest news of Bordertown, right here, come and buy it!" The speaker accosted me with an aggressive grin. She was human, with painfully orange hair and hundreds of silver bangles on her arms, and she was waving a handful of newspapers in my face.  
  
I sidestepped her and continued down the street, brushing invisible lint off my cravat. The news of Bordertown did not concern me. I made my living off the kind of needs and wants that had always been around, and always would be. Love, hate, petty rivalry, these were my bread and butter. A dealer in curses has no use for gossip in the broad, impersonal sense of newspapers.  
  
The street was fairly empty, but then it was but a few hours past dawn, and utterly charming creatures that they are, few humans find early morning suitable for anything other than slumber. Of course, I could say much the same for many of my brethren elves. I found a section of curb near the wharves but far enough from the Mad River so as not to offend my delicate nose, and settled down to wait and watch. Pickings were generally slimmer in the morning, but one never knew.  
  
A motorcycle sped past, roaring like the Harley it proclaimed to be, but smelling distinctly of peanut oil and soy sauce. Apparently I was in a magical area, for a while at least. Good. I pulled some embroidery thread from the pocket of my trousers, and began to tie carefully spaced knots.  
  
Across the street, a clothing store opened its doors. The owner was an elf girl, perhaps an even five feet in height, although she almost looked old enough to be running a store. Then again, I wasn't one to judge. She slid open the metal covers on the windows, to reveal shirts and jackets dripping in rhinestones and sequins. I squinted at the dark interior for a moment, then gave up. It certainly wasn't worth rising and walking over there.  
  
A man walked by, carrying a large cardboard box and muttering to himself. I cocked my head toward my work, pretending to be occupied, but strained my ears. The insane made good customers.  
  
"I'll show them," he was saying, jerking his head side to side, but not actually seeing anything, I would guess. "I can't stand how they look at me, the bastards. I'll show them, and then . . . then . . ."  
  
He was almost to me. Showtime. I stood, slipping the knotted thread into my pocket and brushing away the wrinkles on my clothing. "Excuse me, sir?" I began, keeping my voice gentle. "Are you, perhaps, in need of vengeance?"  
  
The man came to a dead stop. His eyes were a tired blue set in a face that belonged in an office in some human city in the World, not here. He even had a receding hairline, and nice shoes. I suspected he was new to Bordertown. "Vengeance?" he repeated, lowering the box ever so slightly. I caught a glimpse of what looked like firecrackers. "Why . . . yes," he purred, hugging the box to his chest. "Why do you ask?"  
  
I permitted myself a small smile. "I specialize in the production of such things."  
  
His eyes widened, then narrowed suspiciously. "You're an elf, aren't you? Why would you want to help me?"  
  
He was just now realizing that I was an elf? My opinion of him, already shaky, slipped a notch. Still, a customer was a customer. "It would be my pleasure to aid you in your pursuit of justice, for a small fee of course." I nodded meaningfully. "I can provide you with a variety of choices for the actual deed, from the very subtle to the more . . . extravagant, shall we say?"  
  
The man was frowning now, but clearly interested. "What exactly is it that you can do?"  
  
"A demonstration, then." I glanced about the street. Probably best not to demonstrate on elves or humans; if nothing else it would make my services seem too easily applied. I settled on a scruffy pigeon that was rooting about in the gutter a few yards away. Taking the knotted thread from my pocket, and a pinch of ground toadstool spores from a tiny vial, I pointed out the pigeon to the man. While his eyes were on the bird, I wrapped the thread around my hand, lining up the strings to the lines on my palm, and summoning the particular magic it is my dubious honor to control, cast the powder in the direction of the hapless pigeon.  
  
Slowly, but visibly, its feet began to grow. The pigeon squawked in alarm and flapped furiously, but it was pointless. By the time it stopped growing, the pigeon was standing on six-inch long taloned monstrosities. Feebly it pecked at them, and tried to fly away. Pigeons are not good flyers under the best of circumstances. With giant feet, the pigeon was reduced to waddling like a penguin.  
  
I glanced at the man. His jaw was hanging, but there was a light in his eyes, and it wasn't friendly. Inwardly I felt a surge of exultation. Business would be good.  
  
He turned to me and nodded, the light in his eyes giving him a sense of energy I hadn't detected before. "My name's Barnaby Phelps. I believe I am going to hire you. What . . . do you call what you just did?"  
  
My face was empty and polite, just distant enough to remind him that I would call the shots. "I deal in curses, my good man."  
  
He glanced back at the pigeon, eyes bright. It was a temporary curse, and would wear off in a few hours, but I didn't feel the need to tell him that.  
  
We went to Clam Clowder, a cute little coffeehouse near Dragontown where one might find excellent coffee, the fine company of cats, and truly hideous clam chowder. Of course, having never developed a taste for clam chowder in the first place, I might not be qualified as a critic. Phelps didn't order the chowder either, I noticed.  
  
"So, see, what I want is some heavy-duty stuff, you know? Like, a curse that isn't going to wash off in the rain, or fade away after a few days. One that will hold up where magic doesn't work, you know?" He leaned back in the booth, spreading his legs under the table and forcing me to either move out of his way or endure physical contact.  
  
Stonily I endured. I am not without pride. "My curses are high quality, I assure you. They are constructed to last a lifetime."  
  
He looked down at his coffee. "Even in the World?"  
  
A warning bell went off in my head, and I sipped at my espresso. It was my first ever, and it tasted like the ashes of the Seven Sisters Who Went Mad at Ilmshaddin. But it was caffeine, and because it was concentrated caffeine, I didn't have to drink as much as normal to get the same effect. Phelps seemed to be fixated on the World. He was dressed as if he was still in the World, he spoke as if he was still in the World, and his vengeance seemed directed at people in the World. Why bother coming to Bordertown at all?  
  
He was waiting for an answer. But what the hell, honesty was a luxury. "Indeed. But I am not cheap, if the undertaking is complicated. Can you tell me how many people you wish to have cursed?"  
  
"Two. Their names are-"  
  
I held up a hand. "First, do you have specific requests? And I believe I would prefer if we settled on a price," and make certain you can afford it, "before sharing such personal details."  
  
Phelps looked disturbed. "I can pay you. I –" He paused as a sleek tabby cat came past his head, sauntering along on the walls of the booths. We both watched as it made its way to another table. Then Phelps cleared his throat. "I want them ridiculed. I want people to look at them the way they looked at – I want them to be embarrassed. I don't care about the details, I just want to be there to see it. How much will it cost?"  
  
"Do you have a short time frame?" I asked, and received a head-shake "no" in answer. "Well, then. I want gold: trinkets, coins, whatever, but it must be in gold. If you can provide me with enough to fill this sack," and I removed a small leather bag, about the size of a man's chest, from a hidden pocket in my waistcoat, "then I will complete the task you have assigned."  
  
He took the sack. "This is a large bag."  
  
"Will it trouble you to fill it?" I asked innocently. It was worse than he thought, for the bag was magic and held considerably more on the inside than it appeared to be capable of on the outside.  
  
Phelps considered the question, for a little longer than I felt was comfortable. Finally, he nodded. His eyes were cold when he caught mine. "I will keep my end of the bargain. When do you want the names?"  
  
"Now is fine." And the deal was struck.  
  
That evening, the streets of Bordertown were washed in twilight shadows and somber light. The air sang of weary warriors and pale queens going to rest in soft graves. I caught a glimpse of myself in a store window on the way home. Vizirien Orthalas, the dealer in curses. As elves went, I was tall, though my silver hair and green eyes were ordinary enough to afford me near invisibility. My face had finally grown a bit beyond the age of youth that marks so many of the elves of Bordertown. The silk cravat, the tailored, lace-adorned linen of my suit, so classically Elvish, was beginning to show wear, despite my best attempts. The store I was using as a mirror held reworked castoff clothing, creatively sewn together for a carnival effect. One shirt caught my eye; a pale blue, with patches of pearl grey that almost made for a decent shirt.  
  
But if I had wanted to dress like a Soho runaway, I would have done so long ago. I headed home, to a small, neat house on the outskirts of Dragon's Tooth Hill. It required bravery to live here, I liked to think, so close to the elven nobles who had scorned my vile magical talent. But none of them knew me on sight, and I was careful to never ply my trade in view of the Truebloods.  
  
Once home, I headed for the refrigerator. I loved the human invention. It was a magic box to end all magic boxes. I opened the door and stood staring at the few items on its shelves, reveling in the wintery air that escaped. None of the appliances in my house actually ran on electricity they were designed for, of course. At various times I had rigged each one up with a spellbox, those being far more familiar to me. But the feeling, the exotic atmosphere, was there.  
  
"You're a tourist, Viz," said Angharad behind me. I turned to face the young weredragon. She was in her human form, or as human as weredragons ever got, her gold hair spilling down to her waist in gentle waves. Angie wore a pair of well-aged jeans and a lycra top that had been through the wars. I shuddered at the indecency of it all. By dragon standards, Angie was a child, barely old enough to fly.  
  
"A tourist?" I repeated, closing the refrigerator and smiling down at her.  
  
Angie hopped up on the counter and reached into a cupboard for the cookie box. Her mouth full of chocolate chip with macadamias, she mumbled, "Your fancy for human things. Did you get a taker yet?"  
  
I paused. She glared at me, impatient. "Why, my dear, whatever makes you think that?" Perhaps a hint of glee crept into my tone. Or perhaps she just knew me too well.  
  
"You did! Oh, who was it? Anybody we know? I hope they agreed to fill the sack! I need some more gold, the hoard is really pretty skimpy still. If I'm going to shapeshift more than once or twice a year, I'm going to need more gold to charge my power. Who was it?"  
  
I poured myself a tall glass of cold water from the fridge. It bore a slight brownish tint. I shuddered, and downed as much as I could in one gulp, then filled Angie in on the details of the job. She shrieked with laughter at the part about the pigeon, but I found it hard to join in, for once. In my mind's eye, I could picture that pigeon, still hobbling around down by the docks, and the unnaturalness of it struck me. Elves played with their quarry at times, much in the way that a cat plays with its food. But to deal consistently, exclusively, in curses; that was ill bred. The bitter sting of my banishment came back to me, and I dumped the rest of my glass into the sink.  
  
"So what do you have in mind? A pair of black market traders like that could be pretty tough to catch unaware, don't you think?" Angie was so helpful when she knew she was getting most of the payment.  
  
I slumped into my armchair. An orphan from better days in a nicer house, the leather armchair sported more than a few cracks and abrasions. The rain stains gave it that weathered air. I loved it. Angie wrinkled her nose, and settled on the floor, crossing her slim legs. "Well?" she demanded.  
  
I raised my eyebrow. "I have decent furniture. There's a sofa-"  
  
"It sags in the middle. This whole house has an air of leftovers to it. You'd think an elf would have better decorating taste, but no. Oh, hey. You're distracting me." She frowned at me.  
  
I gestured toward the sofa. "Dragons, even half-dragons, do not belong on the floor. Now, from what he told me, Ellis Meyer deals in motorcycle parts. Nothing very fancy, just the basics needed to run a motorcycle in Bordertown. And he trades strictly World equipment, I suppose so that he doesn't have to learn anything about magic."  
  
"You're one to talk, o master of motorcycles. You could fix one up with a spellbox, at least." Angie still sat on the floor.  
  
"Ha. I have no skill with spellboxes. It's the other target that worries me. Marita Hammel. I've heard of her. She deals in talismans and amulets and such, again strictly from the World, but . . . cursed items are a specialty of hers." I stared out the window, at the last death-cry of sunlight that strained to touch the house before expiring somewhere between the Realm of my upbringing and the World of humans. I inhaled and said what had been bothering me ever since I learned of her part in this. "If she deals in cursed items, she almost certainly has protection against curses."  
  
Angie was silent, thoughtful, her dragon-gold hair spilling around protectively. I worried suddenly that it might attract attention, that someone might recognize her for what she was and come after her, but no. There were enough elves and elf-wannabes in Bordertown with gold hair for Angie to remain anonymous. Growing up half dragon was dangerous; Angie was potentially the kind of commodity that made people like Hammel go all warm and kidnappy inside.  
  
"It's got to be a curse, though. That's what your customer wants." Angie said. "Too bad you couldn't fake a curse, somehow."  
  
"Indeed." My stomach rumbled, and I lifted my eyebrows in mock surprise. "Why, my dear, it would appear that supper is in order. Taco Hell, or Godmom's?"  
  
"Godmom's, of course." She bounced to her feet. "You're buying, right?"  
  
Over the next few days, I sought out my spy network, which is to say I went around chatting up acquaintances for information, specifically any information which might be useful to my little endeavor. Casually, of course. It wouldn't do for word to get back to the targets that they were being studied.  
  
Ellis Meyer lived above his store on Chrystoble Street. It seemed like awfully shabby digs for a man with black market dealings, especially items as popular as motorcycle guts, but the word was he spent most of his time in the World, anyway. Perhaps he didn't need anything more fancy during his brief visits. If so, it was bad news to me, who would have to wait until he showed up. Cursing the assistant of my target was useless. Going to the World after my target was beyond consideration.  
  
My friend, the colorfully dressed Parsnip Trooper, visited Meyer's shop fairly often. Parsnip had a weakness for gourmet chocolate; armed with that knowledge, I stocked up on marzipan and truffles and stopped by Parsnip's apartment.  
  
It was in a low, squat building that hadn't been painted since Faerie's return. Weeds sprouted in the cracks in the sidewalk and shunned the planters, which held only barren dirt. Parsnip's apartment was ground level, on the end by the street. I walked up to the fence and peered at the gate. It was padlocked. I paused, taken aback. The gate was never locked.  
  
A cat sitting in a puddle of sunlight glanced up at me, and began her midday bath. I cast about for some alternate means of entry.  
  
"Hey, Viz! What're you doing, just standing around?" Parsnip hailed me from his door. He was wearing bright yellow cut-offs and a pair of galoshes. His shirt was Hawaiian with plumeria flowers, and I saw a tie fixed on his throat. I blinked.  
  
Parsnip came up to the gate, grinning like a mad thing. "Pleasure to see you, my scrawny friend. Come on in, man."  
  
I clenched my teeth, warning myself that patience was a virtue, and explained in a measured tone that the gate was locked. And incidentally, that the pleasure was all mine. And it was. I was so sincere I almost believed myself.  
  
"Locked? It's never locked." He reached out to finger the padlock, just a gentle caress. It sprang open, falling into the weeds with a scritch. "Come on, elf. I think I've got some tea, or something, in the apartment." He headed to his door.  
  
I glanced down at the padlock as I entered, frowning. I could have sworn it had been locked. It had certainly looked locked. Inside, three large parrots and a fuming purple lava lamp greeted me. Scarves were strung from available corner. Parsnip had a large metal contraption in one corner which baffled me entirely. It was strung with Christmas lights and the interior was furnished with bedding.  
  
We sat on the sofa, which was in comparable condition to my own, and Parsnip handed me a beer. I took it before realizing what it was. Well, courtesy prevented any refusals now. I cracked it open, and managed to take a sip without spitting it back out. Swallow. Sip. Swallow. There, that was probably enough for courtesy. Casually, I proffered the chocolate delicacies. Purely a gesture of friendship, of course. Parsnip eagerly accepted them.  
  
"So, what brings you here, man?" Parsnip asked, gnawing enthusiastically on a truffle. He seemed to me to be just beyond his youth, but human age is so difficult to measure, because it changes so quickly.  
  
I had decided to disclose as few details as possible, so I lied. "I was considering entering the market for a motorcycle. I've heard that Ellis Meyer offers good merchandise for splendid prices. You do business with him, do you not? Perhaps you have heard something?" Actually, I'd heard that he had "cool merchandise for kick-ass prices," but everyone has their own way of phrasing a sentence.  
  
"Yeah. Meyer is decent. He gives you real fair prices, you know? Like, man, one time I had to get a new set of shocks, and he gave me this leather saddlebag free. I mean, it was just like a gift. It was cool. I don't know if he sells motorcycles, though. I think . . . hey, look, I can fix you up with a motorcycle. What kind d'ya want?" His eyes were earnest through lanky hair. I felt like buying him shampoo and scissors.  
  
"I . . . was looking for something rather . . . deluxe," I offered, hoping that deluxe was out of his procuring power.  
  
He deflated a bit. Apparently it was. "Maybe you'd better talk to Meyer, then."  
  
Now it came to the tricky part. I needed certain crucial details, and I had to act as if they were trivial. First, the basics. "What time is he available, do you know?"  
  
Parsnip stuck his tongue out in some arcane form of concentration. "He's not a morning person. But he's not in the shop a whole lot. Don't know where he goes – I've heard he has a little business on the side. Probably that's it."  
  
"Business?" I made it a question, and kept it light and curious.  
  
"I'm not sure what it is, man. I think maybe he sells toys or something, though. He's got kids around a lot."  
  
That was a bad sign. First, it made private access to the target that much harder. Worse, though, it suggested a level of good karma for Ellis Meyer that I wasn't at all sure I wanted to tangle with.  
  
I thought fast. "Perhaps I might catch him for a dinner meeting, then. Do you happen to know if he has any favorite restaurants?" Places he'd run to if threatened, places not to use for the curse because they would be his home ground, not mine.  
  
"Um . . . gee, Viz. That I don't know. Sorry, man. Hey, can I get you another beer?" He pointed at the one in my hand.  
  
"Ah . . . no, thanks, Parsnip. It's quite all right. Anyway, I'd better get going; I need to do some grocery shopping before I get home."  
  
Some further research confirmed my suspicions. Ellis Meyer was rarely in one place for very long, and he did indeed spend much of his time in the presence of lovely young people. I restated my findings to Angharad that evening over succulent water fowl and a light watercress sauce.  
  
She frowned at me. "That sounds kind of strange. Hanging out with kids, I mean. He deals in motorcycles, not exactly kid stuff."  
  
I considered. In my youth in Faerie, I remember a cousin my age spending hours poring over the mechanics of magical bridge-building: the necessary node constructions, the temporal restraints and the physical manifestations required, as well as the various appeasement spells for all the creatures offended by the existence of an Elvish bridge in their territory. Still, it did not seem quite normal for entire hordes of Bordertown's youth to converge on this one man. But – "I don't know that it matters. Ideally, I'd like to perform the curse in the middle of the night, when he's sound asleep. I rather doubt there will be any children around then."  
  
Angie shrugged. "Is that honorable, attacking the guy while he's asleep?"  
  
This was the girl who laughed at my pigeon with giant feet. "Honor, my dear? Pray tell me what of anything is honorable about cursing?"  
  
She sputtered something about fair play, and how would I like it if the tables were turned, and wound down surprisingly quickly. For a moment Angie looked sheepish. Then she said, "Have you decided what curse you're going to do?"  
  
I paused. I had been thinking of something fairly complex, which would possibly lead back to me. In Bordertown, strange and impossible things happen to people on a fairly regular basis, which was what enabled me to perform my services in the first place. Still, I had to be careful not to create a reputation as a dealer in curses, or people would begin to look beyond the general weirdness of the Border and find another explanation. It was a fragile environment in which to work, but so far I had done splendidly. It would be nice to be able to do some fancier work. But with children around, possibly muddling my spell or worse, accidentally making themselves the target, I thought a simpler curse might be in order. Easier to reverse, if it came to that. I said as much to Angie.  
  
She nodded thoughtfully, and stretched like a cat, or rather, like a dragon. Her golden hair glowed in the candlelight, reminding me of the River of Amber in summertime: an endless slow cascade of warm, golden liquid slipping past the aspens in the hills above my home. My old home, I reminded myself. Bordertown was my home now.  
  
"Let's see. I'd turn him to stone, except that that's not so much humiliating as truly inconvenient. Limb deformation is humiliating, but more difficult to reverse. I think I could do it. Or – hmm."  
  
Angie brightened. "What about something that's not physical? He's gotta be a motorcycle fanatic. He–"  
  
"Must. He must be a motorcycle fanatic. Not 'gotta.'" I corrected gently.  
  
She made a face. "Anyway. What if you made it so he was clueless about motorcycles? Or something along those lines?"  
  
I blinked. "That's . . . got definite possibility."  
  
Angie grinned briefly. "But what about the other target? You haven't mentioned her much. Marguerita? Or what was it?"  
  
"Marita Hammel. I think I'll worry about her after I finish with Meyer."  
  
"'K. Go for it, Spock."  
  
I growled at her, though not seriously. "Don't call me that." The reference had been explained to me several times, and it still did not amuse me.  
  
She giggled.  
  
The supplies required to make Ellis Meyer forget everything he ever knew about motorcycles were common enough to find in Bordertown. People are often disturbed to learn how many ordinary, everyday items are the key ingredients in curses. But it's the magic itself that is uncommon. Even among elves, beings suffused with magic living in realms of magic, the power to curse is rare. Oh, there are hedgewitches, and demon summoners and frequent enough, but those who can truly curse are fortunately very limited in number. The knowledge necessary to curse effectively is even less common.  
  
Anyway, I needed almonds, associated with wisdom, rosemary, associated with memory, a drum, symbolic of thunder and violent force, two scales from the hide of a fire salamander, traditionally the lore keepers of their realm, and a piece of a motorcycle.  
  
The herbs I bought at a nearby food store, along with bread and soda imported from the World. It wasn't subterfuge; I seriously doubted anyone considered almonds and soda a tasty meal, even for an elf. It was simply a matter of combining errands. The drum was procured in a similarly prosaic manner. A mere hand drum, constructed for one of the many fools in Bordertown who fancied themselves musicians, it came cheaply to my hands. I painted the drum red when I got it home. Angie was out for once, having said something about helping a treasure hunt by the Mad River. The red paint wasn't strictly necessary for the spell, but it helped to set the stage. My general plan was to set up the herbs as representations of Meyer's memory, tie them more specifically to his knowledge of motorcycles, and then destroy that knowledge.  
  
A piece of a motorcycle would be easy to come by in Bordertown, but the problem was I needed one of Meyer's motorcycle bits in particular. I shuddered at the thought of accidentally causing a random stranger, or worse, all of Bordertown, to forget all knowledge of motorcycles.  
  
And, of course, the fire salamander scales, symbolic of his visual memory, would be quite expensive. And the sack of gold coming to me was off- limits, as was Angie's current hoard. I couldn't remove anything from it without her noticing, and besides, it defeated the whole purpose of my job. So I was going to have to get creative. But where to get them?  
  
Milo Chevrolet didn't strike me as the type, although he had a reputation as one of the most powerful magic-workers in Bordertown. I was too nervous to ask Mrs. Wu. She had a fairy godmother air that didn't mix well with my cursing ability at all. Any elves at all were out; even the elves that were banished or expatriated wouldn't help a dealer in curses. I couldn't count on hiding my ability.  
  
Who, then? I tried to think. Maybe I'd think better if I sat in my favorite chair. I wandered over to the leather armchair and slumped into it. No humans to see, so I didn't have to be quite so lithe and limber.  
  
The red drum sat on the table in the kitchen, looking at me reproachfully. Who was I kidding? It was cruel to take away the man's entire livelihood. And for what? So that some jerk from the World could feel that surge of petty revenge? My teeth ground together. Startled, I tried to relax, staring off into space and concentrating on not worrying about the curse.  
  
Apparently, I succeeded, for I did not wake until Angie came home at dusk.  
  
"Viz!" she cried, bounding into the room, her golden hair showering tiny sparks in her excitement. They lit the room like fireflies as they fell and disappeared, no more dangerous than a campfire on one's carpeting. She clutched a filthy shoebox to her chest.  
  
"Viz. Tell me you didn't spend all this time sleeping! Are you awake?" She prodded me in the elbow. Reluctantly I sat up, wondering if I might be able to slip back to my dreams.  
  
"And where have you been, dragonlet?" I murmured, rubbing sleep from my eyes.  
  
She plopped onto the floor, and placed her shoebox in front of her with exaggerated care. "The treasure hunt, of course. Remember? I told you? Anyway, guess what! I found something for my hoard. Drum roll, please." Angie paused with her hands hovering over the box.  
  
Sighing, I gave up entirely on sleep and leaned forward to offer the proper level of attention.  
  
Angie lifted the cover off the box. Inside lay a tiny motorcycle. It was encrusted with grime, but she had wiped clean the wider surfaces, and I could see the chrome underneath. Every visible inch of the motorcycle gleamed gold. I blinked.  
  
"Oh, surely not . . ." I whispered.  
  
Angie lifted it out and flicked her fingernail into the intricacies of the tiny model, removing some of the mud. "It's real gold. Someone must have really loved their motorcycle to have made this. Anyway, obviously I need to clean it up a bit." She glanced at me. An "aren't-you-proud-of-me" look crossed her face.  
  
"It's wonderful, Angharad. It reminds me–" No. Never mind that. She gave me a questioning look. I had almost said that it recalled memories of some of the treasure in the hoard of Rantrinaedras. The dragon who had kidnapped her, raised her, and forced the weredragon power upon her. So the sweet child could be his mate. Long term rape. Best not to bring that up.  
  
"It's the kind of thing one sees in Faerie," I finished lamely. Angie seemed to take that at surface value.  
  
We spent the next hour cleaning the tiny bike, though Angie did most of the cleaning and I mostly provided unhelpful advice. "In the Realms, there grows a splendid plant by the name of wyvern's mouth, which is renowned for its ability to eat dirt from any inaccessible spot – and no, it doesn't grow around here."  
  
Dinner was chicken korma, with enough substitute ingredients to make it worthy of a different name, but we each consumed our fill. There were leftovers, which provided me with an excuse to make use of the refrigerator. Angie was in a good mood. She let me stand in front of the open door for at least a minute before yelling at me. At one point, I told her of my plan for the cursing of Ellis Meyer. Angie approved of it heartily. She promised me she'd get a small motorcycle part from his store, if she had to steal it. When I protested, she bared her teeth at me in a playful grin, reminding me that she was a weredragon and could take care of herself. Her almost savage eagerness to see the man punished raised my spirits a little. I warned her to be careful.  
  
It wasn't until I had climbed into the cushions and silks in which I normally slept that I recalled the fire salamander scales. It occurred to me that I might look up the halfie girl Zephyral for them. She was a frequent traveler to the Borderlands. It was likely she'd seen a fire salamander at one point. Since I hadn't heard of her demise, it was even possible Zephyral might have survived an encounter with one.  
  
"Fire salamander scales?" Zephyral repeated somewhat increduously. We were sitting in her garden on the edge of Bordertown. Soft midday light filtered down through the leaves, reflecting in the hundreds of tiny pools she had constructed in her garden. "You're interested in the strangest things, you know that, Viz?"  
  
I stiffened ever so slightly. Zeph was a friend, I reminded myself. She wasn't after my secrets. I forced myself to relax and replied, "It's for a party."  
  
She raised an eyebrow, but rose and headed for her stores. I followed, dragging my heels a bit, in part so as not to seem too eager, but also to relish in the heady scent of green growing things and the gentle thrumming of the tiny fountains. All of the plants were from the World, but there was still an unmistakable resemblance to places I had left behind in Faerie. It was . . . nice.  
  
"Here you go, Viz, a dozen or so fire salamander scales." Zeph handed them to me wrapped in a thick cloth. I nearly dropped them in surprise. They were heavy. When I unwrapped the cloth, I saw oval flakes the size of eggs, each burnished like bright copper.  
  
"I can't afford these," I murmured, admiring the way the sun caught in them and sparkled.  
  
Zeph shook her head. "For free."  
  
I stared at her in horror. "You're joking. These must be worth a fortune."  
  
Zeph smiled at me, a smile too wide and easy to be sincere. "You're a good friend, Viz. Besides, they're just pretties. I've got hoards of them."  
  
She refused to take no for an answer, and finally, I left with the scales. As soon as I was out of sight, I pulled out a hair from my head and tied it in two knots, each on the same end, whispering words to the spirits of light and air. It was not a curse, but rather, traditional elven magic, and it made the caster invisible. In Bordertown, where magic was highly unpredictable, there was a risk to using magic, but I decided I'd better take that risk.  
  
I doubled back and entered the garden through a side doorway, pausing by a stone statue of a selkie half-submerged in one of the larger pools. Zeph was talking with someone.  
  
"I don't traffic in that kind of merchandise, you know that," she said flatly.  
  
"But, my dear Zephyral, we have it on good authority that you've been selling the body parts of sacred fire salamanders to the public." It was one of the Suits, the peacekeeping figures of B-town. Ye gods of fire and dust. I glanced down to make sure I was still invisible. Of course I was.  
  
"Look, I don't have – hey, there's nothing back there but gardening tools." Zeph said.  
  
I couldn't see what was going on from my vantage point, but something warned me not to go any closer to the conflict. I could hear. That should be enough.  
  
The Suit searched the place for over an hour, finally calling to Zeph, "All right."  
  
"Finally," she responded tartly. I saw her toss her head.  
  
"Watch it, Zephyral. We're going to keep an eye on you." He nodded meaningfully and made his exit.  
  
I left then, making my invisible way back to Dragon's Tooth Hill. About halfway there, I hit a pocket of no magic, and popped into visibility, startling two Soho kids. The chicken they were attempting to stuff into a sack escaped while they were gawking. I kept on going.  
  
So. Zephyral apparently had a smuggling operation going. Lucky me to be her safe deposit box. I supposed she was going to want her little gems back at some point. A thin smile crossed my face. It didn't matter to me that the fire salamander scales were hot merchandise; I was going to use them up and leave no evidence.  
  
I stopped by Parsnip's place on the way back, planning to wheedle some information about my other target from him. Parsnip was in, the gate was open, and he was cooking an early dinner. The scent of chicken and cinnamon wafted toward me as I walked up. I knocked on the door.  
  
"Hey, Parsnip?"  
  
"Hey!" Parsnip was delighted to see me. He greeted me at the door, and when he turned to go in, I saw a woman sitting on the couch, talking to one of the parrots. She heard us come in, and glanced in my direction. It was Marita Hammel. Just the person I had been coming to ask Parsnip about. I nearly swallowed my tongue.  
  
"Come in, man. Beer?" He offered a bottle to me.  
  
This time I was expecting it, and politely refused. I had learned that while Parsnip always offered some means of refreshment, he rarely bothered with any other formalities. The only piece of furniture not completely strewn with scarves was the sofa, and Marita was sitting on it, so I took a seat on the floor, next to the lava lamp. After he got a fresh beer, Parsnip went back to cooking.  
  
Marita saluted me with her own bottle from the couch. She was quite tall, dressed in strange, artificial materials that could only have come from the human lands, and had elegantly manicured nails. Keenly I recalled the tattered edges and fraying seams of my Elfland threads.  
  
"I'm Marita," she said warmly.  
  
"Viz." Actually, my full name was considerably longer than even Vizirien, but I wasn't about to offer my True name to someone I was planning on cursing. Especially someone who could curse me back. I offered her my hand, attempting to carry out the human tradition of shaking hands. She glanced away, and I dropped my hand uncertainly. But I thought-?  
  
"I understand you're in the market for a motorcycle?" she asked.  
  
Elfbane take her. What was she doing here? I would have to continue the charade. "Well, yes. I am . . . considering a purchase, yes."  
  
Marita nodded. "Ellis is a good businessman. I highly recommend him to you. He's very sweet." She smiled, something in that gentle smile told me that her whole demeanor was a lie. There was something positively wicked about that woman.  
  
"Thank you. I will bear your recommendation in mind." I managed to keep a veneer of calm; years of delicate diplomacies and politics in the Realm had taught me that much.  
  
"Hey, man, thanks for the chocolates," Parsnip put in from the kitchen area. I had almost forgotten he was there until he spoke.  
  
"Oh, it was no trouble. I'm glad you enjoyed them," I assured him.  
  
We chatted for a few strained moments about the weather, which had been so appallingly nice of late that there was little to say. Parsnip offered me dinner, but I declined with some comment about the need to use up the food in my refrigerator before it went bad. This went over fine with Parsnip, who so rarely cooked for himself that he thought a natural way to refuse, but Marita seemed very thoughtful.  
  
I made my escape, trying not to look like I was running away while making as much haste as possible. Finally, I was back on the street, heading home by a somewhat circuitous route. Whenever I found myself in a precarious situation, I surrendered to my paranoia in full. This time was worse than most. The feeling of being followed didn't fade until I had gone the long way past Dragontown. I avoided the streets I knew, operating under the shaky logic that if I wasn't recognized, anyone chasing me wouldn't be able to track me once they'd lost sight of me.  
  
As I walked, I thought seriously about calling the whole thing off. Meyer seemed like an easy target, but if he was such a nice man to the children, it didn't seem . . . fair to punish him so that my unpleasant (unhinged?) client could have a revenge fantasy. And Hammel. She was confusing, at once too wonderfully nice to deserve a curse, and yet there was something about her that made me want to run in the other direction and never let her find me again. Back to Faerie, even, maybe. I weighed the choices. But Angie could not live in the Realm, and she needed help building her hoard. She was still a child in so many ways. I couldn't abandon her.  
  
Stepping past an alley overflowing with rubble from the two houses that had fallen down on either side, near the river, I stumbled and paused to ascertain my whereabouts in Bordertown. Two large human males slunk out of the rubble toward me, carrying knives. They were dressed all in black, and one had a leather jacket.  
  
The first called to his unshaven friend, "Looks like someone's gotten lost."  
  
His friend only giggled wordlessly and steadied his grip on the knife.  
  
Numerous curses came to mind, but I had no preparation time for any of them. The fire salamander scales in my pocket were useless without readying. I swore, and ran down the street, away from them. They ran after me, their heavy human feet pounding the street in black boots. The Pack, the largest human gang in Bordertown. Two of them anyway. How could I have wandered into Pack territory? My mental map of Bordertown was frankly a joke, but I was sure I was nowhere near Chrystoble Street or any of the other streets the Pack laid claim to in their swaggering, elf-hating way.  
  
I ran full tilt along the cobblestones, stretching my long legs as hard as I could. I had to hope neither of them was smart enough to throw a knife at me. Behind me the steps grew heavier, and the sun was setting. Twilight washed the houses in somber radiance. Most people were elsewhere: the concerts, Danceland, restaurants. Now was an excellent time of day to visit the Endless Rave, just as the sun was setting and the air grew cool, but there was still enough light to see. Where in Telforin's name was I? If I could just get out of their territory, they might stop chasing me.  
  
I found myself at an intersection. A trio of Truebloods stood on the far corner, dressed in ruined velvet and lace dyed the color of heart blood. Elves, but more importantly, members of the elven equivalent of the Pack, known as the Bloods. When they saw the Packers behind me, they drew heirloom swords and struck battle stances. I ran past them, then slowed and turned to watch. The two humans skidded to a halt in front of the Bloods, raising their knives uncertainly. Good. Let them kill each other. I ran on, until I was out of sight, and pain laced my side from running. Then I slowed to a walk, frequently glancing back to make sure I wasn't being followed. At that point, I wasn't sure who I was more afraid of finding behind me, Marita or the Pack.  
  
When Dragon's Tooth Hill came into view, fairy lanterns gleaming in the growing dusk, a weight I had not realized was there lifted in my heart. Things were getting entirely too complicated for my tastes. My stomach growled as I reached my door. The house was grey, with a green door, in a row of aging beige houses. Elf-colors, though the tiny house dated to the years before Faerie's return, so I knew it couldn't be related.  
  
"Angie? My dear, I've acquired the scales . . ." I trailed off, peering into the darkened living room. Angie wasn't there. "Angie?"  
  
No answer. But surely she'd be home; she hadn't told me she'd be busy, and she always remembered to tell me when she was. I searched the rest of the house quickly, poking into the closet for no logical reason, and finally checking under the beds. Nothing. Well, the usual menagerie of dust puffs, but no weredragon. Anywhere.  
  
I dashed out back, to the alley behind the house. Here and there trashcans crouched hopefully awaiting the appearance of the infrequent trash collectors that wandered down from the Hill. No Angie. I called her name, trying to think where she might have gone. The only response was the opening of a window further down and an old Trueblood male leaning out to swear at me in the high tongue.  
  
After a moment, I returned to the house and sat down at the table in the kitchen to think. Surely, she was simply out with friends. I was overreacting, that was it. I should wait patiently for her to come home. In fact, I should make dinner.  
  
I sat there, alternately drumming my fingers and staring out the front window at the darkening street. When the street light flickered on, I rose and began pacing. Hunger warred with worry, and finally I stalked over to the refrigerator and pulled out leftovers from Vates, which was, in my opinion, the only Bordertown restaurant with good food from the Realm. The crust had wilted, and the toppings were soggy, but it was cold. For a little while, I was thoroughly enveloped in refrigerated splendor. Then I ran out of leftovers, and Angie still hadn't come home.  
  
I rose and put the dishes in the sink to wash, then went over to the window. The stars suggested that it was late autumn, that the moon was new, and that it was well past midnight. This did me absolutely no good whatsoever, as I was fairly certain that midsummer was not that long ago, and it felt more like early evening. I did concede that the moon was in its proper phase, and drew my curtains.  
  
Angie's little gold motorcycle sat on the giant wooden cable spool that served as an end table in the living room. I slouched in my armchair and stared at it. Where could she be?  
  
The motorcycle gleamed. I wondered idly what it would look like under fairy lantern light, but those lovely creations were out of my reach monetarily. Motorcycle. I blinked.  
  
Angie had said something about getting the motorcycle part I needed from Meyer's store.  
  
It took me a few moments to gather various "ingredients" for curses. Some people carried charms and enchantments, or knives and guns. I could curse people; the ability itself was a curse at times, but it did make a good weapon. I stuffed dried apple skins, tiny golden lion charms, beggar root, and a vial of oleander honey into my pockets, more or less at random. Almost as an afterthought, I added the fire salamander scales. Cursing without having constructed a plan first was dangerous, but I didn't have time for the kind of elaborate curses I preferred.  
  
I ran out into the night, using the soft glow of stars and the occasional street light to guide my path. The scents of Bordertown drifted past. With the fall of night, a riverside breeze was coming in, bringing with it the stench of unmentionable things. Running full out, I reached Meyer's neighborhood quickly. Chrystoble Street itself loomed in front of me before I remembered that this was the heart of Pack territory. No man's land for those of the True Blood. I swore and ducked into an empty alley and paused for breath and thought beside broken crates and rotting fish heads. Did I dare an invisibility spell? It was the only way to reach Meyer's store alive. I jerked a hair loose from my scalp and tied it, calling on the spirits of light and air.  
  
Cautiously I stepped back out onto the street. A small dance club was opening, and humans, many dressed in black leather, were streaming toward it. I threaded my way through them, careful not to touch anyone, and found the store. A hand-lettered sign above the door proclaimed, "Meyer's Motorcycle Maintenance." The door was closed. I stared at the handle of the door, frustrated. It would most certainly give me away if I opened it invisibly.  
  
I cast around for ideas. Nearby a cat sprawled on the cracked sidewalk, her hind end resting higher than the front. Strange. I looked away, then suddenly had an idea. A moment later, I was "encouraging" the cat to rise, mostly by prodding and lifting. She disliked this treatment immensely, and told me so. I ignored the hissing and picked up her forefeet, leaving her to wobble on her hind legs as if she were trying to stand up like a person. Carefully I walked her over to the door, and used her paws to open it. It looked for all the world as if the cat were opening the door – a strange enough sight, to be sure, but then, the animals of Bordertown were anything but normal. As soon as the door was open, I released my feline assistant, and she tore off down the street yowling. I spared her a glance, then crept inside.  
  
Meyer's store was still open for business, though no one was there to buy anything. Hubcaps, tires, shocks, various bits and pieces of chrome, and other motorcycle miscellany lay propped up against counters and tables, which in turn were covered with smaller items. I had never seen so many objects from the World gathered together in one place, and certainly hadn't expected it here in Soho, the runaway part of town. The scent of metal twisted against its nature rose from the floor like the stink of sweat, or the sound of tears. I swallowed hard. Motorcycles didn't usually feel like that.  
  
Meyer was nowhere to be seen. There was a back room, though, and stairs leading up to the house part of the building. I checked the back room first. It was small, dingy, and painted beige. A calendar behind the door marked the date according to human reckoning, with big X'es crossing off days past. Next to the calendar was an image, made by the mysterious World technology known as photography. It was of a small Trueblood child, dressed in lace and velvet rags, and not very many, either. I was shocked. True, I had heard of Trueblood lords taking low-rank children and using them as dolls, but this. This was here, in Bordertown, in the office of a man I . . . I remembered Parsnip's words. "I think maybe he sells toys or something, though. He's got kids around a lot."  
  
Somehow I didn't think Meyer was running a toy store for kids.  
  
Just then the man himself came downstairs. I was standing in the office, and came out to see. Meyer stared at me. I blinked, and glanced at myself. The spell had faded, maybe from a no-magic spot.  
  
"Who the hell are you?" Meyer demanded. "And just what do you think you're doing in my office?"  
  
He was short, but wiry, with blond hair. I was betting he was a powerful fighter. Just then he looked ready to fight. I grabbed a fire salamander scale from my pocket, and drew on the magic of cursing, and threw a curse at him.  
  
He staggered, which I found amusing, as it was only supposed to be a truth spell. When I found myself telling him that I was amused because it was only a truth spell, I realized my mistake. The salamander scale was too powerful a reagent. I'd cursed myself as well, and probably everyone in the vicinity, and now we were all eager to tell each other everything that came to mind.  
  
Meyer was babbling something about a smuggling ring. I focused on him with a little difficulty.  
  
"I don't know who you are, but you shouldn't be here," he was insisting. "I'm needed at Marita's place. I haven't got time for this; I'm supposed to help her with the work.  
  
"Work?" I repeated, confused. "Look, I just want to know where my friend is-"  
  
"I don't know you! I don't know your friends, so I'm not going to play hide and seek with you. I have to go. Marita can curse people. I don't want to be late. She gets mad when I'm late."  
  
"That's not good. I've never fought another dealer in curses before," I found myself commenting somewhat frantically. We were both backing away from each other. Meyer's eyes showed the whites.  
  
"You can curse, too? Oh, right, you said this was a truth spell. Aagh!" he cried, slamming a fist against the counter. "Shut up! I can't stop telling you everything!"  
  
"Look, just tell me where Angie is, and then . . ." I caught myself. I had almost said, "and then I'll curse you and go find her." Damn truth spell. "How am I going to reverse this?" I wondered aloud.  
  
"Angie?" Meyer repeated. "Who is that?"  
  
I supplied a description without thinking. "Girl, looks maybe fourteen, long golden hair, weredragon – I mean, oh crud."  
  
His eyes narrowed with an evil light. "A weredragon? I think I like this truth spell. She'll be worth even more that way. I was just going to sell her as a halfie, but a weredragon . . . that's got to be valuable."  
  
"Sell?" I asked blankly.  
  
He blinked at me, calmer now. "Halfie children bring a lot of money in. Sweet little trophy wives back in the World need cute pets to love. Halfies are just exotic enough to corner the market. I can make serious dough on the brats."  
  
Why was he just telling me this? I felt sick. Stick to business, Viz, I reminded myself. "Where's Angie?"  
  
"Hammel's basement," he said, face twisted angrily. He was trying to hold back information, but it wasn't working.  
  
"Where is that?"  
  
He told me, giving a street behind the Lodge of Foxes. Then he grimaced and shuddered. He was fighting the curse. Experience gave me empathy, but not that much. I tried to think what to do.  
  
Meyer turned to stare at me. "Why are you here?"  
  
"I'm looking for Angie," I managed, struggling not to answer more completely.  
  
"No, you said something about fighting Marita. What did you mean? Why are you really here in my store?"  
  
Crud. The answers came, drawn out of me like breaths. "I've been hired to lay curses upon you and your partner, to do grievous vengeance in the name of another."  
  
He smiled, but it didn't touch his eyes.  
  
Suddenly, he was charging across the room toward me, knife from out of nowhere in his hand. Someone was screaming, and I wasn't sure who. I ducked and rolled, sliding under a table and crashing into a display case. Glass rained down on me as I fumbled in my pockets for something, anything.  
  
Meyer leapt onto the table, gesturing with the knife. It was huge, and in very good condition.  
  
My hand closed on the oleander honey. I yanked it out of my pocket, uncorked it, and tossed the viscous contents in his face, pulling hard on the curse magic at the same time.  
  
Meyer screeched, his hands going to his face as the knife clattered to the floor. He fell backward, the table crashing over on top of him.  
  
Shakily, I rose to my feet and brushed bits of glass out of my hair and clothing. Meyer was mewling when I summoned the courage to walk over to him. His hands no longer covered his face. When he turned his face in my direction, I saw his eyes.  
  
They were without pupils, clouded over in the classic sign of blindness.  
  
I ran out the door, heading for the Lodgefollow Street and Angie.  
  
Most cities swim gently into night in the way that leaves fall from trees and pass gently along in the stream, quietly making their journey to the great oceans. In the Realm, anyway. I've never seen the World; the closest I ever came was my sojourn in the Nevernever, when I found Angie, so I cannot speak for the cities in the human lands. Bordertown, however, does not slip gently away into the darkness. It throws a temper tantrum. Violence, explosive colors, burning hatred and spoiled children make themselves known. And of course, everyone else has a party. Sometimes I think the party has been going on for so long that there are only guests left, that the hosts have gone somewhere else. To the great Blueberry in the sky, perhaps.  
  
Hammel's basement was apparently under an abandoned house on Lodgefollow Street, a grey and straw-colored affair with sagging corners and bare iron supports showing in places where the concrete had crumbled. It did not look altogether stable. Broken glass littered the ground in front where something had been tossed out the second-story window and then dragged away. No lights on inside, and the nearest functioning streetlight was at the corner, some tens of yards away. The place looked positively cheerful. And Angie was in there. I bit my lip. I did not want to enter. I did not want to go anywhere near a woman who could throw curses, who was known for her ability to curse. In the years before my banishment, I had met only one other dealer in curses, and that meeting had left me with the shakes for months, just from talking to the fellow. Most people I knew were rightly afraid of those who could curse. Privately, I admitted I was not one of the scary ones. It was my talent, but not my choice. I did not enjoy my work, but one had to make a living.  
  
I was stalling. The front door was missing. My stake-out spot behind a dying elm tree was conveniently far from the door. I strained my ears for sounds, and heard only crickets, and somewhere a party or a club. Hot Chinese food wafted on the wind, and I was still stalling.  
  
Fine. I put one foot in front of the other, and made my way to the door.  
  
Inside was darkness and little clouds of dust. Hammel must not have used this way as an entrance. I made a mental note to watch out for other entrances, and felt my way silently to the kitchen. Moonlight sprinkled in the window to reveal a back door and a closed door near where a refrigerator had once stood. In the dimness, I could make out mud tracks by the back door. Hammel's entrance.  
  
I put my hand on the other door to ease it open when I heard voices, coming from below.  
  
It was Phelps, the man who had hired me.  
  
"I don't know where he is, either!" Phelps spat.  
  
The cool, sweet voice of Marita Hammel cut in curtly, "Well, find him, then. I don't have time for this. We need to get this shipment loaded before the night ends."  
  
"Why do I have to find him? Can't you just, you know, throw a curse or something?" Phelps whined.  
  
"A curse? You're a fool, Phelps, and Meyer's a worse one for hiring you back again. I would have to design a curse specifically for that. Should I test it on you?" she asked sweetly.  
  
There was a pause.  
  
"Fine. Fine, just be that way. You want me to find Meyers or to get the truck?"  
  
"Forget him. We don't have time. Get the truck; we'll start loading the kids."  
  
Phelps was coming up the basement stairs. Frantic, I ducked back the way I had come, toward the front door and out of sight. I listened as Phelps banged out the back door, muttering to himself. So. It appeared I was no longer employed. Yet Phelps had not contacted me to cancel the contract. Either he had forgotten it, or he still felt a little inconvenience in his colleagues' lives would brighten his day. Either way I was annoyed with him.  
  
Once I was certain Phelps was gone to get the truck, I ducked back into the kitchen and peeked into the basement. Marita was standing in front of ten or so children, all sitting on the floor. She had a pocket watch in her hand, and was examining it, her back to me. The kids seemed unnaturally still in the darkness. Holding my breath, I slipped down the stairs to kneel behind a moving crate. My back was to the stairs, which was bad, but Hammel couldn't see me, and with luck, I could grab Angie and go.  
  
Then I took a closer look at the children sitting in front of Hammel. Ten halfie kids and Angie sat there, still as statues. They were statues.  
  
She'd turned them to stone.  
  
For a moment, I just knelt there, stunned. It was a powerful curse. And she'd cast it on children. One didn't do that. It was one thing to attack adults, as evil as that was, but to turn children to stone-! Well, it wasn't permanent. I froze. Maybe it was. I knew how to undo the curse, but to do it, I would have to find the string Hammel had used as the key. Untie the knot in the string, and the curse would be reversed. Where was the string?  
  
Hammel was shaking the watch and muttering to herself. Apparently it wasn't working. I had no sympathy. I glanced around the rest of the basement, hoping to spot a loose bit of string. The basement had a bare concrete floor, with water heater and other human contrivances packed into the far corner. Water stains spread across the top of the walls in numerous places. Dead leaves had blown in where a window had broken. A piece of string could be hidden in many places, but I doubted Hammel would throw it away. So she had it, most likely.  
  
Marita was looking in my direction, I noticed suddenly. Our eyes met, and something like fear went running through my veins. She raised her hands, preparing a curse. I ran for the stairs, thinking something along the lines of using the higher ground, when Phelps opened the door above me and we collided.  
  
I felt the impact of the curse hit, off-center, as it smacked into Phelps. He went down, and the weight of him dragged me down with him. We tumbled down the stairs. Marita was shrieking in frustration in the distance and I think I was screaming as well. I found myself in a heap at the bottom, buried under Phelps. I struggled to my feet, one hand against the wall for balance and the other diving into my pocket for cursing material. Phelps sprawled on the ground, drooling and wide-eyed. A feeble- mind curse. And I had felt the impact, it had come so close to hitting me. Wildly I wondered if it really had missed.  
  
My hand closed on the lion charms and the beggar root. The first was for courage and the second for reversal. It would do. I began to focus my power, shaping the curse. Phelps groaned underneath me. Hammel stalked toward me, bristling with anger, one hand reaching into her purse.  
  
I threw the fear curse in a hurry, but not fast enough. Hammel pulled a fistful of nettles out of her purse and held them in the line of fire. The curse smacked into an invisible wall. Of course, the curse was invisible, too. It was just that I could sense it somehow. A moment later I was on the ground again, the lion charms and herbs vaporized.  
  
The basement seemed to swell, the walls rising like waves and carrying the only door far, far away. Shadows loomed in every corner, and it seemed they were filled with hundreds of tiny, chittering beasts. I looked away, my heart pounding. Hammel was watching me, eyes narrowed, then nodded in satisfaction and turned away. Her head distorted before my eyes, growing monstrous and cruel, then back to her usual pleasant form. I couldn't get enough air. I couldn't move, but I knew I wanted more than anything to get out of that place.  
  
Dimly I realized that the nettles must have been part of a reflection spell. She'd reflected my own curse back at me. It was more powerful than I expected, one calm part of my mind noticed while the rest of me writhed in terror at the foot of the stairs. I tried to think about rising and fighting some more, but my body wouldn't move. Hammel was far, far better at cursing than I was. She was trained, educated, better prepared. What had I been thinking? I struggled for breath, feeling my throat swell up at the thought of all the unmentionable creatures that were undoubtedly lurking in the basement. It would be worse than impossible to attack Hammel now. I had lost the advantage of surprise. I was a failure. Angie was about to be condemned to a freakshow life, and I had destroyed my one chance to liberate her.  
  
Defeat is agony. In the stories, when someone is defeated, they either gracefully bow out or they viciously backstab the victor. Either action seemed too much to ask of me just then. I would have dearly loved to do a little backstabbing. But I couldn't, I couldn't, something would go wrong and I'd be a worse failure and I might even get Angie killed. I didn't dare look away, either, partly from fear that Hammel would do something else to me, and partly out of a need to at least witness this terrible moment. Indecision rose in my heart and warred with cold dread.  
  
Hammel brought a handcart around to the stone forms of the children, and tipped one of them onto it. It was one of the younger ones, a half human, half Trueblood toddler with soft curls about her ears. She was pale stone all over, a kind of spidery marble of sorts, so it was anyone's guess what colors her hair and skin and clothing had been. Hammel wheeled her over to the foot of the stairs, near the mindless body of Phelps, and my own shattered self. She neatly stepped over us and went upstairs to check on the truck, leaving the cart.  
  
Now, I thought to myself. Now would be an excellent time to jump up and find that string to undo the curse. Except that the string was with Hammel. The shadows seemed to leap around whenever I glanced at them out of the corner of my eyes. There were things in them, dangerous things that would attack me if I moved at all. I could feel chilled sweat running down my back and I shuddered hopelessly, sobbing to myself.  
  
Faintly I thought I heard a whisper. I paused, trying not to sniffle like the drooling shell beside me. No, it was just my imagination. I was going mad. Why not? It wasn't as if there was any reason left to cling to sanity.  
  
The image of a golden dragon beating sail-like wings against the sky filled my mind. I had never seen Angie fly in dragon form. When I had found her, she'd been too weak and too young to even hop a few feet off the ground, too weak to change back to her human form. If not for the gold I'd found for her, she'd never have been able to shift and sneak out through the tiny tunnels of Rantrinaedras' lair. This was it. If I lost her now, I'd never see her again. I steeled myself for Hammel's return. Ignoring the skittering shadows, the eerie silence of the statues, and any other horrors my mind spun into creation for me, I eased the apple skins out of my pocket. On reflection, I added a fire salamander scale to the handful. I was going to need more power. Carefully, slowly, I built the power I would need for the curse. I added each twining bit of magic as delicately as possible, both to create a safer curse that couldn't be reflected, and to avoid alerting Hammel. I could sense curses within my vicinity; it was likely she could as well. As I worked, I listened for footsteps. If she returned too soon, I wouldn't be ready and that would be the end of it.  
  
Once, I felt something warm like blood dripping down the wall above me, seeping into my hair. It was all I could do to hold still and concentrate on the curse. Everything in me screamed to run, to escape, and to get away from whatever vile thing was above me on the ceiling. I did not look up.  
  
Then Hammel was at the door, propping it open and muttering to herself about the difficulty of the handcart wheels on the stairs. I was out of time. I threw the curse, tossing the apple skins and the scale in a clumsy underhand throw. The force of the curse threw Hammel back, slamming the door open. I heard her crash into something in the kitchen. The fear began to dissipate, draining away like so much cold water. I lurched to my feet and ran up the stairs.  
  
In the kitchen, Hammel sprawled on the floor. Or, what had been Hammel. Her body was melting, elongating, her skin changing to a strange, smooth grey. When she saw me, she struggled to rise, wailing, her hands reaching out to me. I stood in the doorway and watched impassively. Slowly, painfully, her arms stretched upward toward the windows, where moonlight poured in, and her feet dug like roots into the kitchen floor, lifting up the tiles to reach underneath. Her face disappeared and more branches grew out to form a tree. It grew silently, once her mouth vanished, with only the slightest creaking noises, as of wind between the branches. Tiny green buds sprouted on the smooth grey branches and opened into leaves. Here and there the beginnings of apple blossoms appeared, then bloomed, and withered, leaving swelling apples to grow. The tree continued to form itself until it filled the windows, its slender, graceful trunk leaning against the counter. An apple tree, at its midsummer growth.  
  
When the tree ceased to expand, I took a step toward it. Hammel's clothing hung from the branches, stretched to tearing in places, and loose in others. In the front pocket of her flowered skirt, which was ironically strewn with the remains of real flowers, I found a small bit of lavender ribbon. It had one knot in it.  
  
Curious, I thought dispassionately. I would have used multiple knots, so that I could change them back individually. I went back to the basement, and halfway down the stairs, I found myself wondering why the curse she'd thrown at me had broken when the curse on the children was clearly still in place. The halfie toddler was still at the foot of the stairs, on the handcart. Her expression was one of gentle surprise. I mulled it over for a moment. The curse she'd reflected back at me had been one of my own doing, and it had been constructed in a hurry. I knew from experience that curses cast hastily did not hold up as well, and sometimes did not even function correctly. Humph. My own shoddy workmanship had saved me from dying of fear.  
  
I took the ribbon, and loosened the knot. She'd pulled it fairly tight, but it was loose enough that it was obvious she had meant to untie it at some point. I worked at it for a moment or two, and then it was undone.  
  
I looked out at the children, and they were all moving, slowly and sluggishly, but definitely alive. They were so much more colorful now. I'd never paid much attention to halfblood children. The prohibition against their existence was drilled into every Trueblood, which almost gave me a reason to support them. And yet, indoctrination was difficult to set aside. It was too complicated for me just then. Angie was the first to notice me, and she ran over, awkwardly, as if her legs had gone to sleep. "Viz! You're here! What happened to the – oh." She stopped short when she saw Phelps. "There were three of them, Viz. Did–"  
  
"I know, I know, they're all gone. They can't do anything to you anymore." I interrupted softly.  
  
Angie took a trembling step forward. "I'm sorry, Viz. I meant to get your curse material and then leave. I didn't realize he was going to . . . going to . . ." she quavered.  
  
I nodded stiffly. "It's quite all right, my dear. Everything worked out in the end." I wasn't quite sure how to put into words my own apology for involving her. I would have to make it up to her somehow.  
  
For a Trueblood, that would have been enough. But Angie was not a Trueblood. She closed the distance between us and threw her slender arms around me in a desperate hug. I was startled. Ah, humans. Awkwardly, I patted her back.  
  
I felt a soft clamp around my leg, and looked down to see the halfie toddler clutching me in her own hug. I blinked. She looked up at me, eyes as innocent and trusting as newborn kittens. Ye gods of flame and dust.  
  
After a few moments of chaos, we managed to get everyone upstairs, past the apple tree, and outside. I didn't bother to mention where the tree had come from. I think Angie guessed, though, because she glanced at it briefly, and then squeezed my hand.  
  
By dawn, we had taken all but the toddler home. She wasn't speaking, either from the trauma of being kidnapped and turned to stone, or from some arcane facet of childhood I wasn't equipped to deal with on no sleep. I finally took her to the police station and dropped her off there, saying only that I had found her wandering with no parents to guard her. The Suits seemed to accept my story, although they wanted to hold me for questions. I was in no mood to be cooperative, especially when there were Truebloods in authority there who might recognize my exiled person. I slipped out with an invisibility spell, and headed home.  
  
Angie was already there, sound asleep on the couch in the living room, her golden hair spilling around her shoulders. I paused by my armchair.  
  
Without stirring, she murmured, "Thanks."  
  
I whispered, "I'm sorry." For not getting the gold this time, for endangering her life, for nearly failing her when she needed me most. For a thousand things I could not speak, even in the dreamlike time of early morning.  
  
The only response was the sound of gentle, even breathing. My ward had drifted into deeper dreams.  
  
-end- 


End file.
